Viscount of Vice by Shana Galen Read Free Book Online Page A

greetings, but he had devoured her with his eyes. He hadn’t been able to keep her brother from seeing his attraction. Flynn had exchanged no more than five or six words with Lady Emma over the remainder of the week, but she had never been far from his thoughts. He’d lain awake at night and wondered where, in that huge country house, she was sleeping. Had she been thinking of him? Had he, at four-and-twenty, stooped to lechery? How could he desire a girl of no more than fifteen so desperately?
    But she was not a child any longer. Gone was the white muslin and the child’s body. Gone were the plump cheeks of youth and the ringlets in her hair. Before him stood a lush, desirable woman.
    And she wanted him. She loved him. Him , Henry Flynn, who had never loved anyone in his life, except perhaps Robert.
    â€œRobert,” he said at last, his voice sounding as though it had not been used for years. “He needs me.”
    She pressed her lips together and nodded. Her hand fell away from his sleeve, and she said, “Then you should go. Be careful. Avon Street…” Whatever warning she had been about to give was left unsaid.
    This could not have been the reaction she had hoped for when she imagined declaring her love to him. If she was disappointed, she did not show it. She was truly a duke’s daughter in that regard. He bowed, taking her hand and brushing his lips over her knuckles. When he rose, she handed him the vellum and quill. “Good-bye,” he said, turning to the door.
    â€œYes. You’ve said that.”
    * * *
    Emma watched the door to the morning room close. She stared at it for a long moment, listening to Flynn’s footsteps as he moved away. She was a fool. Had she really thought this the time and place to show him her heart? She knew he needed to find his brother, but could men never think logically? Would it hurt to wait a few hours and go in the light of day?
    But that was her own selfishness. She hadn’t—she didn’t—want him to go. She wanted him to stay with her. She wanted him to keep touching her and kissing her. She felt alive with him. Most of her life was spent doing what she ought—making calls, chatting idly, dancing with boorish lords. The only time she felt alive was when she could forget she was Lady Emma, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Ravenscroft, and lose herself in her efforts at the charity hospital. No one there cared who her parents had been or how many rooms Ravenscroft Castle boasted. They were grateful for a smiling face and clean bed linens.
    At the hospital, for a little while, she could forget Lady Emma and be herself. She felt that way with Flynn. He’d never seemed impressed by titles or lineage. When he looked at her, he didn’t think of her ancestors and the “good stock” from whence she hailed. He saw the woman.
    Or at least she wanted him to.
    Forgetting her note to Katherine for the moment, she walked across the room and stood before the French doors that opened to a small garden where Mrs. Emerson grew vegetables and the doctor cultivated medicinal herbs. Emma knew it was a pretty garden, though the night was too dark for her to see any of it. In the room’s lamplight, she saw only her own reflection in the glass. She looked…rumpled.
    She was not so naïve as to think a match between herself and the Viscount of Vice would be well received. She would never have him, not in that way. Probably no woman would. What she wanted was a few moments in his arms, a few moments she could cherish some day when she was an old woman with ten children and scores of grandchildren and a lout of a husband she’d never loved hobbling beside her. She wanted to look back at her youth and know there had been one moment, just one, that had been hers alone. One moment that had not been driven by duty and obligation. One moment of pure pleasure filled with love.
    She knew Flynn could give that to her.
    But